


Baby He's a Loner

by vaduva



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Letters, Little bit of a daddy kink, M/M, Military Kink, Older John, Romance, Shameless Smut, Sherlock is a lovesick puppy, Sherock spoils John a bit, Unilock, Virgin Sherlock, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-19 05:50:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3598737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaduva/pseuds/vaduva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a pallid skinned teenager with mussed hair and perfect clothes and an analytical gaze. John Watson is a soldier with a steeled heart and melancholy eyes. The two meet when John comes back to London on a short leave and Sherlock quickly and overwhelmingly becomes enamored with the doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. England Have My Bones

As soon as John's feet hit London soil again he felt a weary nostalgia that rushed over him in an overwhelming sensation that relocated his jet lagged body lounging at a bar counter before he even left the airport. He was on a three week summer block leave from the military, and although he couldn't picture anywhere else he would go during this short respite, he didn't have much - albeit anything - to come home to. When he left for service a year and a half back it was right after his mother had passed, and the house had been sold for what little it was worth, and used to pay off the bills left in her death. The only immediate family he had still was his sister, whom he was not on speaking terms with, and hadn't been for awhile now. He had utterly zero notions as to what he was going to do with his time back in the damp, buzzing city, but he would rather be in England than anywhere else. It was where he was born and where his bones would rest long after his last breath. The city owned his soul.

After a whiskey, he departed the airport and hailed a cab. He had a small duffel bag in tow with very few belongings. He had an outfit or two of civilian attire, though at the moment he was wearing camouflage fatigues and a white t-shirt with his tags tucked under the collar. As he ducked into the back of the vehicle though the grey clouds draping the afternoon began to scatter wet drops and John dug out his green military coat, forgetting the weather differences for a slight time. He shivered a bit after shrugging into his coat. The London air felt even cooler and damper than usual after months spent in the desert. He watched the city tremble past, an opaque haze of rain and lights. He wound up at an affordable bed and breakfast for the night, as right now he mainly was interested in a warm shower and lots of sleep in a comfortable bed. Most of the guys from his unit on leave were going back to families, staying with relatives, but John was resigned to a little room with mismatched Victorian era decor and his mere greetings were solely that of the innkeeper who checked him in and gave the key.

Once in the rented room he tossed his bag and ran a hand through the short blonde hair mussed in sodden spikes. The bed looked amiable, and seeing as the prominent idea on his mind was a short kip, that was rather important. Coat shrugged off, he ventured into the small bathroom and proceeded straight into a shower, washing off the stale feeling left over from his travels and brushing the taste of alcohol from his mouth afterward. He exited the bathroom in a fog of steam and collapsed onto the covers with a towel around his waist, his warmed muscles sinking into the mattress with relief. He meant to drag himself up and dress after a minute of relaxing, but he ended up drifting off far to quickly.

 

When he came to the city was dark outside, and the sound of London was a welcomed thing to wake up hearing, though not something he was used to anymore. It gave him a hazy feeling akin to homesickness as he sat up in the dim room, car lights flitting through the cracks in the curtains as ephemeral shadows passing over the walls. The last time he had woken up he had been on a plane, hundreds of feet up in the sky and disconnected from the civilizations below, leaving him uneasy and longing for some sort of solace on ground. The time before that he woken up at his post, amongst his fellow soldiers in the pre dawn heat. It was disconcerting to wake up in a different place every day for the last three. John moved off the bed, placing the time at half past seven, and stretched his stiff muscles. He pulled on pants and a a clean white tee, and then did a quick set of fifty push ups to help get his blood flowing and clear the muddled pathways of his brain. The quaint hotel didn't have an on location gym, but there was one located not far, and he would be utilizing that most likely as soon as the morning. Though, he was looking forward to going out for a run through the streets and soaking up the scenery in full as well. Once in another pair of camo fatigues, he donned his jacket and army boots, as after all the time spent out of civvies, he felt most comfortable being in army attire. It was like a second skin at this point.

Leaving the room, he paused to inquire with the innkeeper, a middle aged woman with light brown hair, about places nearby where he could get a decent meal. She promptly suggested a cafe called Speedy's on Baker Street, near directly across from the inn so he couldn't miss it. He thanked her and headed out into the downpour. The skyline was a hazy grey of reflected lights through murky fog. The moon was barely visible. John spotted Speedy's without preamble, and dashed over to the entrance, which was adjacent to a flat building. He ducked inside, leaving the lukewarm summer rain out, and was soon seated at a table in the corner with a menu in view. As he sat and absorbed the smell of frying food and low-key atmosphere he was reminded of the little diner he used to go to regularly as a teenager with his mom and sister. It was a family ritual; every Saturday night up until he was about seventeen from as long as he could remember, they were regulars. They'd all tried everything of the menu and each had their favourites. They also sold baked goods at the counter, and his mom always treated him and Harry to a homemade biscuit, which he remembered as being spectacular. The memories drowned out everything for several long moments, and he resurfaced from his reminiscence when an older lady approached his table, and after he didn't answer her first inquiry for his order, she waved a hand to get the boy's attention;

"Yoohoo," she smiled a bit uneasily. "You alright, dear?" John blinked up at her, gaze distant almost as if he was looking yet not solidly seeing her.

"Oh. Yeah...yeah I'm fine." he didn't even muster a smile, bones heavy as if the oppressive weather had saturated and weighed them down to cold iron.

She thought the young man looked a bit somber and she gave him a comforting smile. "What can I get you to eat, love?"

"Uh," John licked his lips, flicking a glance at the menu that he hadn't read yet. "Anything's fine by me, just something warm and filling will do."

"I'll fry you up something myself." she nodded. "Can I get you some tea?"

"Ta," he smiled a bit at her, even the slight gesture still warm and charming.

"I'll be right back." she promised, then ventured off to the kitchen.

John's stomach felt unsettled with the memories tugging at him still, and the place reminded him a lot of the restaurant he haunted in his adolescence. He couldn't recollect the name of it. Perhaps it could have been this exact one, he'd not be able to recall enough to know. He drew his feet up on the seat, knees to his chest and bit his thumb nail, hood of his jacket still up. He stared at the table, veins immersed in laggard dysphoria that left him capable of merely existing there in his seat and chewing at his nail as his only action.

The kind lady came back to his table, setting down a cuppa. "Your food will be right out, deary." she cast a glance of concern over him, although it went unnoticed by the younger.

He was the third young man she had seen in uniform today. "Are you on leave, then? Visiting family?"

John's teeth latched onto his bottom lip, stopping himself from biting his nails further. "Not visiting anyone, but yeah."

He seemed a bit of a loner, which reminded her of the young boy renting out the flat upstairs, her dear meddlesome Sherlock. She had an inkling out of the blue that the two would get on and she wondered if she could coerce Sherlock down here to talk to him, he did seem so dispirited that it made her heart ache. As if conjured up by the mere thought of him, Sherlock appeared by her all the sudden, launching into question right away;

"Mrs Hudson, I need to confiscate your kitchen for the next hour or two. I suggest you don't come in during that time."

"Oh my," Mrs Hudson clutched her chest for a moment. "You gave me a fright, Sherlock."

"Yes, yes. Kitchen? Don't come in until I say so."

John dragged his vision up the length of the svelte boy standing by his table, from the leather shoes to the raven curls that framed his eyes. He seemed to notice John surveying him, and dropped his sea colored gaze to meet John's own. They held each others' sight for a long moment, before John crossed his arms and looked down at the table.

"Mrs Hudson, on second thought I won't be needing your kitchen tonight."

"Oh, that's fine then, dear." she muttered, watching curiously while Sherlock sat down across from the brooding soldier.

"I'll just go check on the food..." she wandered off, seeing as no one was paying attention to her anymore.

Sherlock bent his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John flicked his gaze over to the ivory-skinned teenager with the calculating view stationed on him. "Afghanistan."

"Mm," Sherlock glanced down, musing. "Parents dead?"

"I'm sorry?" John ground out through a terse jaw, muscles constricting tensely.

Sherlock merely stared. "Fairly recent, too."

"Who the fuck are you?" John uttered, more bewildered than aggravated.

"You're staying at the inn across the street, yes?"

"How did you know that?"

"Obvious." Sherlock shrugged one lanky shoulder, refraining from mentioning the fact that he had been watching the street below from his window and seen the man come out from the inn's entrance. He also pretended that he hadn't just made up an excuse to come down here and get a closer inspection of the blonde.

"Yeah, I am."

"They charge too much for their meager services. I'm looking for a flat mate. Interested?"

John hesitated, too groggy for the sudden switch in subjects that was happening quite a bit here. "I'm only in town for three weeks."

"Quite. But, you'll be back again for the holidays. I get a very reasonable price on the flat thanks to my helping the landlady out with a problem. Seeing as you don't have anyone's couch to kip on when you're back in London it would be wiser to rent a flat and I would have no problem with you being absent for the majority of the time."

John licked his lips, pulling himself up straighter and trying to sharpen his focus. Between the alcohol and the kips he'd had in the past 24 hours, not to mention fucking jetlag, he was having a rather hard time with coherency at the moment. Was this kid asking him to share a flat? "I...yeah, I don't know 'bout that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be boring. Just say yes."

"I'll think about it." John affirmed, pushing his hood back to run his fingers through the strands of honey colored hair, making them messier than before. He realized after a moment that Sherlock was watching him, quite intently, albeit silently now.

"I'll let Mrs Hudson know you'll be taking the extra room." the black-haired boy finally spoke with a nod, after staring for several moments.

"I didn't say yes." John argued, though without much spirit. He was just too damn exhausted and starving.

"You will. I'm saving you the trouble of wasting further time thinking about it."

Mrs Hudson came to the table then, placing a plate full of steaming food down in front of John. "There you are, dear."

"Ta," John picked up his silverware, hardly caring if he had an audience, he was famished.

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock uttered without looking away from the soldier. "Your clientele here will also be renting out the flat with me, I trust the spare room is habitable."

"Oh," she lit up at the surprise. "Yes, it's set."

John heaved a sigh, but just ate his food. Suppose he could get a better deal on a flatshare than renting hotel rooms, and he didn't have a place to haunt up when he came back for the holidays at the end of the year, so at least he wouldn't have to worry about that. He'd considered finding a reasonably priced flat to rent out so he wasn't a stray whenever he ventured back to London. Seems the opportunity sort of just fell into his lap. Well...sat down across from him in a flicker of long limbs and haywire ink black curls.

Mrs Hudson drifted off to tend to other customers in the cafe and John ate his fry up, which was quite good.

"What's your name?" John asked finally, glancing over at the boy.

"Sherlock Holmes." he murmured in response.

"Dr John Watson."

"Doctor..." Sherlock mused to himself.

"Yeah," John confirmed, unsure why that was of any substance. He paused eating, taking a sip of tea. "How old are you? You look young to be renting out a flat by yourself."

Sherlock gave him an incredulous glance. "I'm nineteen."

"Are you studying?"

"Yes. You're wondering why I chose to live off campus, but I'm wondering why anyone would choose to do so."

"Some don't have much of a choice."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Was I right?"

"About what?" John continued eating.

"Your parents."

John swallowed the bite of food with some trouble, eyes directed down. "My mum died a year and a half ago."

"And your father?"

"Might as well be dead." John shrugged, finishing up the last of his meal.

"Ah," Sherlock nodded. "Walked out."

"Something like that."

Sherlock clasped his hands and rested his chin on them. "Shall I show you the flat?"

 

~*~*~*~

 

Sherlock waved his pale hand in a sweeping, introductory gesture around the flat. "What do you think?"

John dragged his gaze around the clutter. "Quite nice. Bit of a mess..."

"Well, yes," Sherlock became a bit flustered, tidying a few things up in quick motions. "I haven't had the chance to clean."

"For the past year?" John quipped, folding his arms.

"My studies keep me quite busy."

"Oh I know all about that, trust me."

"The spare bedroom is just upstairs." Sherlock pointed in a general direction.

John simply stood where he was, silently taking in the tall teenager before him, lissom frame adorned in a perfectly fitted suit with the collar of a white button-down unfastened rather generously around the pale expanse of throat. Sherlock seemed to realize that John was making a decision, and waited unwavering.

"I'll bring my stuff over in the morning." John muttered, as a subtle agreement, even though Sherlock had assumed he already conceded.

"Great." Sherlock uttered without emotion.

"Until then I'm going to retire back to the inn as I am severely jet lagged."

"I'll come with you." the other boy stated.

John paused, vaguely confused at that statement. "Mm, no you won't."

"While I have the chance I'd like to conduct a few experiments involving hotel rooms." he grabbed a coat, wrapping himself in the dark, long confines of it.

"Experiments?"

"Yes. I'd like to take some samples and see if it's possible to contract an infection from bacteria in hotel rooms."

"God, I hope your results come back negative, then. For my sake." he's stayed in a lot of hotels over his 27 years.

"I'll take that as an agreement. Shall we?"

"As long as you make it quick, I was serious about being jet lagged as fuck." John rasped, pulling his hood up and stomping back down the stairs to the door.

Sherlock felt a faint smile tilt his lips as he followed John's fleeting figure, stiffening his collar to frame his face.


	2. Black Russian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drunk Sherlock is fun Sherlock.

John flicked on the light switch, revealing the small hotel room in all its little glory.

"Worse than I suspected." Sherlock noted, walking in without preface.

"It's not that bad." John muttered, closing the door with an elbow.

Sherlock scanned the entire area, as John shuffled out of his coat, tossing it onto the end of the bed. The teenager drifted over to the sole window, slipping a finger through the crack of the curtains and shifting them apart enough to glance out at the view for a moment.

John settled on the short couch, elbows resting on knees, and blue eyes on the younger man. "So, are you going to get those samples, then?"

Sherlock turned away from the outdoors, meeting the soldier's vision. He then shifted to trail his inspection over the other man's amber skin and strong arms, lingering over the silver dog tags hanging from his neck. Sherlock noticeably swallowed and then abruptly turned away, disappearing into the bathroom.

John thought for a moment. "How are you collecting samples? You don't have any supplies with you."

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the cramped bathroom where he was going to pretend to be doing something of importance. Well. John was a bit more observant than he expected. He thought he'd get away with that excuse, honestly. Though the idea was intriguing, perhaps he should actually collect some samples on that sometime when he did have supplies with him. He came back out into the room. "Tactile observation."

John sat there, doubt over his features. "Yeah, you made up that shit about the experiment, didn't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sherlock mumbled, hands in his pocket.

John leaned back into the cushions. "Either you're subtly stalking me or hitting on me. Which is it?"

Sherlock hummed lowly, not making eye contact. "The latter?"

John chuckled quietly and Sherlock was surprised that he hadn't already kicked him out. "Do you usually go for older guys?"

"Everyone likes a man in uniform." Sherlock attempted to joke.

John was thoroughly amused, smiling broadly. "You do, at least."

Sherlock willed himself not to do something as idiotic as to start blushing. He'd never come onto anyone before, but he knew the science of it. He hadn't needed to put it into practice before, though. John Watson was the first person he had sincerely flirted with.

"Do you know how old I am?" John prompted, clearly thinking that would be some sort of deal breaker.

"I'd guess around 25. Does it matter?"

"27," he corrected. "-and yeah, kinda does."

"If you're thinking that since I'm nineteen I'm immature and prone to bouts of stupidity then I can assure you that is entirely not the case."

"No, no. You're..." John bit the inside of his lip. "You seem quite brilliant. I wasn't implying that at all."

Sherlock was surprised by the compliment and awkwardly sort of stood there in the middle of the room, shocked into silence for a few moments. "Really?" he murmured.

"Yeah, really." John confirmed, and then decided he wasn't quite as tired as he thought before. "You want to get a drink-"

"Yes." Sherlock had answered before John could even finish.

The doctor breathed a laugh. "Alright, then."

"I don't handle my liquor well though, you should know." Sherlock watched as John reclaimed his jacket and slipped back into it.

"Don't worry, I have no impure intentions. I just need a drink."

"You've already had a few today." Sherlock stated, hoping that perhaps after some more we  _would_ have impure intentions.

"How do you know this shit?" John questioned with bemused - and a bit awed - exasperation.

"It's the science of deduction. Your eyes are glassy, your movements are slow, and you're restless. Could be jetlag save for the fact that I can faintly smell the alcohol, despite your attempts to get rid of it. Whiskey, I believe."

"Brilliant." John remarked, shaking his head a bit. "You're quite something."

This time Sherlock felt his face warm, and he looked away from the doctor. "That's not what people usually say."

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off."

John laughed a little, smiling still. Sherlock felt his mouth twitch upwards, but he kept his eyes down and attempted to suppress the little smile lingering of his own.

"Let's go." John led the way back out, with the black-haired boy at his side.

 

They found themselves inside a pub less than fifteen minutes pass, beers in hand. John was hungry again, maybe because had hadn't eaten much today, either way he was munching on a basket of greasy fish and chips and enjoying it.

"You consume a lot of food." Sherlock acknowledged, steadily sipping the bitter alcohol.

John shrugged, glancing over the rugby game on the telly. He longed to get back into playing the sport. He had been more than a bit good in his day. "Suppose so. Though, I don't get a good hot meal all that regularly. I'm taking advantage of it." one would probably be worried about gaining weight from all the greasy foods he was intending on indulging in the next three weeks, but with his daily workouts and metabolism, his body would easily burn through just about any amount of calories he consumed.

He flicked his attention back to Sherlock, who was watching him while he watched the television. He gave the younger man a small smile, picking up a couple chips to toss back. "What do you study, Sherlock?"

"Sciences."

"Is that how you learned that science of deduction thing?"

"No. That's a singular talent of mine."

"Oh, okay. Quite impressive, that.

"Do you think so?"

John nodded, chewing a bite of crispy fish. He swallowed and responded, "Quite, yeah."

"John, you're very nice." Sherlock murmured, seeming vaguely confused by that.

"Do you not normally encounter nice people?" John inquired with a little smile that did things to Sherlock's insides he was unused to.

"Not often. Most people either ignore my existence or despise me. Inferior minds take to bullying as a defense mechanism when their weaknesses are exploited."

"...That your way of saying you were bullied in school?"

Sherlock chose to take a drink instead of answering and John assumed that was a yes. "Do I need to kick some kid's asses?" John questioned, realizing right afterward that he was only remotely joking.

"I am quite confident you could but it's not necessary."

John pursed his lips, slowly chewing the mouthful of food he currently had. "Just remember my offer."

"I'll keep it in mind." Sherlock flicked his gaze down, slender fingers encasing the glass of bronze alcohol.

"Good." John nodded shortly.

"That thing- that...tough soldier demeanor thing...that's quite attractive." Sherlock admitted aloud.

John smiled at him and every damn time he did that Sherlock felt his chest constrict. "I'll keep it in mind."

He watched as Sherlock's eyelashes fluttered as he nervously shifted his gaze, blood coloring his pallid cheeks with the contrast of rose petals dipped in cream. John decided that Sherlock was indeed very endearing. "

This isn't normal for me." Sherlock murmured, drinking more resolutely. "I'm not usually interested in anyone. When I say not usually by the way I mean that I've never been interested before."

"Really?" John licked his lips, running a hand through his blonde locks. "You're saying I'm the first person you've ever been attracted to?"

Sherlock swallowed another gulp from his near empty glass. "Quite so."

"Should I be flattered?"

"I'm unsure."

"I think I am." John concluded. "Why don't I get us another round?" he suggested, watching Sherlock top off his beer. The boy nodded in consent. John weaved his way to the bar and ordered two more. Slipping glances back to Sherlock, who looked anxious as he sat in their booth, long fingers gripping his black clad knees. John smiled to himself. He may not have any intention of getting closely acquainted to the teenager, but he would admit that he was certainly more than a little flattered by the interest, and returned it at least partially. Still, he wasn't looking for any  _intimate_ encounters, of any kind. Hell, he didn't even have _friends_ , let alone romantic prospects in his life. His world pretty much revolved around medical attentions and army life. Yeah, he was quite the loner, but that's what he was used to nowadays and he wasn't sure he was ready to change that.

John slid back in beside Sherlock, setting the drinks down. Sherlock reached for his without preamble. The doctor idly wondered to himself how unwell he handled alcohol and whether he should even be having a second one. Perhaps too late to consider that now. John sipped the foamy liquor, relishing the crisp taste on his tongue. He hadn't had a draft in a pub in well over a year. By the time half of the second beer was consumed, Sherlock was wavering noticeably. His graceful motions turned progressively into clumsy falters and his eyes glazed over into glistening grey-green moons. John wasn't even buzzed yet, though he was working to correct that. He was amused by Sherlock's descent into intoxication.

"John, I think you should know that when I came into the cafe I had the intentions of talking to you. I made up the whole thing about using Mrs Hudson's kitchen." he waved his hands and shrugged. "I saw you outside on the street from my window and I was quite- I was very much besotted at once. Wait, no, no, that sounds stupid. It sounds like that idiotic saying about love at first sight. That's not what I'm implying. Love is merely a chemical defect. I'm insinuating that I was captivated by your semblance."

John watched, smiling softly as the boy rambled. It was both bemusing and bewitching. "Well, you have a very captivating presence as well."

Sherlock was quite enthusiastic towards downing his beer now, hand never leaving the glass for more than a second. John pondered whether he should have a cut off limit soon. He felt responsible for the well being of the younger man. John was a bit lost in thoughts as they drank, the noise of the bar subdued into an easy and comfortable background noise. Lately John was wont do so; drift off into his own mind. He was attentive when he needed to be of course, but in his downtime he found himself staring at nothing and falling into the reverie of conscious. This time though, he was sitting next to an increasingly inebriated Sherlock Holmes.

"I don't understand why you find this-" Sherlock gestured at their situation. "- _fun_." his words were getting a bit slurred.

"It's more relaxing than fun." John replied, studying the last few sips in his glass. He glanced over at Sherlock's empty one. For someone who doesn't seem to enjoy or drink often he was casually outdoing John.

"I do feel a bit drowsy." Sherlock licked his lips, and John watched the action.

"Perhaps we-"

"Let's do shots." Sherlock interrupted, right when John had been suggesting to head back.

"You wanna do shots? But you said-"

Sherlock cut in again, flicking a dismissive wrist at him. "I'm fine. I think I'm handling it exceptionally well tonight."

John tried to decide if he should mention the fact that Sherlock was in did, quite, _plastered_. He was aware it would probably go unheeded so he didn't. "Yeah, aright. I'll get us shots." John agreed, tossing back the rest of his beer and veering back up to the bar. Sherlock gave a languid smile, resting his head on a hand.

He came back with two Black Russians, as it wasn't a terribly strong choice.

Sherlock inspected his glass, holding it up to the light and squinting at it. "What is it?" he murmured, low voice gliding the syllables into one another.

"Black Russian. Just vodka and coffee liqueur.”

Sherlock made a sound of approval. John held out his glass expectantly for a cheers.

Sherlock stared at him with vaguely narrowed eyes before it suddenly came to him what John was doing. "Oh, right. Cheers."

Sherlock tapped their glasses together and John bit back a smile as they downed the shots.

"Not bad." the younger appraised.

John nodded. "Nice."

"More?"

"Yeah." the doctor agreed with a curt nod.

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

John was practically supporting the majority of Sherlock's weight as they exited the pub, it was past one in the morning and Sherlock could barely walk on his own, despite the fact that John had stopped ordering drinks for him an hour ago. The lad was effectively and entirely wasted. John hailed a cab and dragged the boy in with him, whom was mumbling about some serial killer that had been on the news, and John was fairly certain Sherlock had just divulged the killer's methods and motives while drunk yet more than likely uncannily accurate. John told "Baker Street," to the cabbie and they were moving forward through the streets a second later.

A flushed cheek rested on John's shoulder and he glanced down at the ebony curls brushing his jaw. The serial killer muttering had ceased. "Sherlock?"

" _Dr Watson_." Sherlock drawled back in his velvet voice.

John found himself quite allured by the sound of his name on Sherlock's tongue. "Just making sure you hadn't passed out."

It sounded like he scoffed in response. ""M fine,"

"You're wasted." John corrected.

"Slightly." Sherlock slid down until he was lying with his head in John's lap.

John glanced down at the avid gaze looking foggily up at him. He was quite sure that the alcohol was making Sherlock more, well, bluntly seductive. Despite that John found him to be completely enticing, he was resolved not to do anything. If only because he was buzzing so hard he'd probably still be drunk in the morning, and John himself was only tipsy. It would feel too much like taking advantage if they were to do anything, even if Sherlock had blatantly expressed interest before the liquor came into the equation.

When they arrived at Baker Street and John stepped out onto the walk with Sherlock's head on his shoulder and their bodies pressed together, his instincts told him it wouldn't be good to leave Sherlock alone. Not like this. John glanced over his shoulder at the hotel.

"Sherlock?" John slipped an arm around his waist when the boy wavered, seeming like he was going to collapse backwards.

"Mmm," was the mumbled response from him, looking at John with half open eyelids.

"I'm gonna take you back to my hotel, okay? I don't really feel comfortable leaving you alone."

"Don' be ridiculous, John. I'm...'m very good."

"Yeah, well, just indulge me." John steered across the street.

“Are you inviting me to have sex?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow and smirked, swaying as they walked over to the hotel doors.

“I’m inviting you to kip on the couch.”

“Ugh,” he complained with a grimace. “Dull. Du-u-u-ul-l-l.” he intoned.

“Practical.” John led the way to his room, keeping an eye on Sherlock in case he looked like he’d tip over.

“Boring. I thought you took me for drinks to lead into sexual exploits. That’s how it works in the movies.”

When they came up to the door, John dug in his pocket for the key. “You don’t seem like the type to watch many movies.”

“I don’t.”

John unlocked and pushed open the entryway, the lights left on. “I’m not going to jump your bones. Just sleep.”

Sherlock stood, wavering on his feet, lids heavy and eyes glassy. “What if I want you to...” he squinted at John. “-what kind of expression is that? Jump my bones? If that’s some articulation for sex then I’m inclined to it.”

John couldn’t help but laugh a bit. “You’d pass out before I even got your pants off.”

“Wanna try?”

“Sleep.” John stated.

Sherlock sighed heavily, but yanked off his coat. He left it as a pile on the floor and basically collapsed face first into the covers, going limp.

“I said you could take the couch, Sherlock.”

He muttered something unintelligible into the mattress and impossibly so only a few moments later Sherlock’s breathing was slower and shallow.

“Sherlock?” John questioned. There was no movement in response of any kind and John scrubbed a hand over his face. He went over and pulled the cover over Sherlock’s sprawled limbs, and then grabbed a pillow and resigned himself to the couch.


	3. Your Vivaldi Reincarnation

The couch wasn’t nearly as comfortable as the bed would have been but John had slept on far worse. He was back up at seven that morning, vacant of a hangover, and rather thirsty. He moved off the cushions, and flicked a glance over the sleeping form of Sherlock. He didn’t think he’d be up too soon, so he decided he would probably get in a run before the boy woke up. Grabbing his bag from the floor, he removed a pair of grey sweatpants and matching colored hoodie then changed into them, along with sneakers. He had an old model of an iPod filled with outdated songs, used rarely but on occasion.

Shutting the door softly behind him, John took the carpeted stairs down to the first level of the inn, tucking his MP3 player into a pocket and plugged the headphones into his eardrums, shuffling through the songs as he went into the dining area where breakfast was being served and grabbed a quick cup of orange juice. He hit play, and downed the drink as he headed back out into the lobby. Binning the empty cup, John carried on outside and zipped up his hoodie against the slight chill in the air. The overcast sky hung over him as he started down the walkways, picking up a light jog to get his blood pumping and body warmed up.

He wound through the city routes, bass in his ears chasing the accelerated pulse thrumming against his ribcage. His eyes lit over the entire stretch of scenery before him, every building and cab that blurred by and outward into the skyline of a blushing grey dawn. His mind buzzed with many thoughts, some nostalgic in root, but after about a mile his introspection faded into notions of fair freckles gracing porcelain skin and ink black tangles. Sherlock Holmes then took up the remainder of his conscious during the extent of his run through London.

Eight thirty saw him striding back down the hallway to his hotel room after seven miles, hood cast over his features and headphones at full volume. Sweat dripped down his hairline, and his breath was heavy. He pushed open the door after unlocking it, finding Sherlock sound asleep yet. He grazed his sight over the still form on the bed, and then dropped down onto his hands and feet and went into a set of two hundred push ups. He wasn’t going to slack during his time off or he’d just regret it when he got back to base and picked up his daily training drills again. Proceeding from push ups into sixty each of sits ups and crunches.

He stood back up from the carpet with sweat trailing down his cheeks, and he yanked the headphones out, pausing the music. He slid off his shirt and used it to wipe off his face. Pondering getting breakfast before it was closed, he draped the shirt over his shoulder and slowed down his breaths as he raked fingers through his hair.

“John,”

Surprised, he glanced back at the bed, finding Sherlock awake and sitting up with his fingertips pressed into his temples.

“Morning.” John greeted.

Sherlock rumbled something inaudible in response, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Head hurt?”

“Obviously.” the boy affirmed, opening his eyes and taking an actual good look at the doctor. Sherlock’s lips parted as if he was going to speak but nothing came out and he merely stared blinking at John’s shirtless figure. The wires in his brain were fraying from the sharp electric thrill that hummed through his veins and his senses were blinded like an all consuming white out from the overwhelming pure emotion that filled up his sternum. His perception was focused entirely on John Watson and his presence. Sherlock had never experienced such a strong reaction to another human being before.

“Alright?” John asked, glancing over his odd expression.

Sherlock shut his eyelids before steepling his fingers and pressing them against his mouth, and then forcing his brain to rewire itself back into a cognitive structure. A few seconds later he blinked his vision back open. “I’m under an amorphous impression that I might have acted a tad bit ridiculous last night.”

John smiled then. “You’re a lightweight. Don’t worry about it, though. I had a good time.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Possibly the most I’ve enjoyed myself in years, actually.” John slid his shirt back on after wiping off the back of his neck. “Are you hungry? There’s food downstairs. I was going to get some.”

“Not particularly but I can accompany you.” Sherlock got to his feet, stretching his long fingers briefly.

“You should probably eat something. Might help you feel better.”

“I only require tea.”

They walked out into the hall together, and John checked his pocket for the key before closing the door. “Ever?” the two of them headed downstairs.

“Generally.”

“No wonder you’re so scrawny,” John smirked a little bit.

“Not all of us are army material, John.” Sherlock buttoned the front of his blazer, white button down rumpled. He ruffled his curls.

John raked his gaze over the boy’s sylphlike form, feeling an uncanny attraction to him. John smiled to himself and looked back ahead. “You’re quite fine the way you are.”

Sherlock’s eyes slid toward John’s direction for a moment at that comment. “Is thank you an appropriate response to that?”

“What would you like to say to that?” John’s hand trailed over the railing as they took the steps into the lobby.

“That I don’t understand why we haven’t acted on our mutual attraction. Isn’t that what people do?”

“You realize sometimes you talk like you’re not apart of the  _people_ category?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Sometimes that’s what people do, yeah. Generally.”

“Then why haven’t-”

John paused abruptly on the last step and grabbed the back of Sherlock’s head, fingers twining in curls, and pressed their lips together firmly. He let go after only a couple seconds and looked at Sherlock’s dazed expression. “Happy?”

“That-...” Sherlock swallowed, heart pounding in his throat. “That was good a start.”

John breathed a laugh, brushing his fingers fleetingly through the fringe around Sherlock’s eyes. “You’re absolutely adorable.”

The teenager was obviously bewildered by the compliment. “No one has ever called me that before.”

John gave him a lovely smile. “Then they’re idiots.”

“Yes. They are.”

“Come on, you’re eating something.” John’s fingers enclosed around Sherlock’s frail wrist, guiding him towards the dining room.

Sherlock lingered as close to John as was physically possible without making it difficult to walk. Glancing down at their hands, Sherlock instinctively had the urge to interlink them. Deciding he wanted to, and therefore should, he tangled their fingers together, John’s tanned, capable hand entwined with Sherlock’s pallid violinist unities. He saw the tilt to John’s lips when he initiated the action of holding hands. He hadn’t held anyone’s hand since his mother’s when he was a child. He quite preferred this. He didn’t see the meaning of it before now, but he thought maybe it was just the act of skin on skin, just the ability to be able to thread your fingers together and feel the tendons of the other’s in yours, their pulse, the texture of their flesh. The simple feat had Sherlock’s mind and body whirling with sensation. He was wholly distracted by the feeling of John’s thumb running over the inside of his wrist.

Their fingers stayed laced amongst one another for the duration of making cups of tea and John fixing a heaping of plate food. They sat down at a table, and Sherlock was reluctant to let go of John’s hand. Fortunately John seemed to feel the same of Sherlock, and left them subjoined, resting on John’s thigh. Sherlock sipped his cup of sweetened tea, noting that John put a bit of cream in his and no sugar. He shifted their hands slightly to press a fingertip subtly into John’s pulse point, caressing the skin there to mask the intention. John’s heart rate was escalated near as much as Sherlock’s own.

“Taking my pulse,” John murmured, skewering a piece of sausage on his fork.

“Merely curious.” Sherlock amended.

The doctor chewed his bite of food, setting down his fork to pick up a piece of toast and extend it to Sherlock.

In return the bread got a skeptical glance. “Not hungry.”

“Eat.” John commanded gently, eyes soft when he looked over at the younger boy.

Begrudgingly Sherlock conceded and took the toast, sinking his teeth into the crust. “I’m not a child to be looked after.” he remarked.

“That’s debatable.”

Sherlock got the unsettling feeling that John’s emotions were more of a protective sentiment as if Sherlock  _were_ a child to him. The idea made him strongly agitated, and he dropped the toast back onto John’s plate after one bite. Pulling his hand away from the older man’s and standing up from the table.

John gazed at him with question. “What’s wrong?”

The fact that he so quickly and easily picked up on Sherlock’s mood would be mulled over later. Sherlock’s moods were usually a mystery to most people, and an annoyance. “I need a cigarette.” he responded, tone flat.

Before John could inquire further, Sherlock was gone from the room. John sighed inaudibly.

 

After finishing his breakfast, John rallied himself back to the room, and he stepped inside to find Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the floor with a cigarette dangling from his lips, hands clasped together under his chin. John paused in the doorway, studying the dark-haired boy. He almost looked like he was meditating. Ash fell from the cigarette and landed on the black material of his slacks. He remained unmoving.

John felt almost as if he would be interrupting whatever was going on, so he ended up merely standing there with the door still open, wondering if Sherlock had even heard him come in. He couldn’t help but watch the teenager on the hotel floor, with his skin of milky iridescence and impossibly long limbs, unearthly and striking. He was unsure how many seconds passed with him stilled in the entry to the room.

Sherlock inhaled on the end of the cigarette, and let the smoke slip past marginally parted lips. “Are you going to just stand there and stare at me?”

John blinked, actually surprised at this point he was even aware of John’s existence. Apparently though. Slowly, the doctor shut the door and moved further inside. “Um, what are you doing?”

“Thinking. If you’re going to stay in here please do keep quiet.”

John let any remark die in his throat before it reached his tongue, and grabbed his bag from the floor before entering the bathroom. After a bit longer of a shower than normal, John dressed in a textured grey tee and dark jeans. Sherlock was in the exact position as when he left, the cigarette butt between his lips now burnt out and ash scattered on his pant leg. John eyed him somewhat as he sat down on the couch and laced up his army boots. His dog tags clinked against his chest as he collapsed back into the cushions and stretched his legs, ankles crossed. He could wait.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

It was nearly an hour later when Sherlock suddenly got onto his feet lithely, hand absentmindedly brushing the ash from his pants, tossing the cigarette stub from his mouth onto the carpet. John shifted his gaze over to look at him and he met the doctor’s calm eyes.

John slowly took a sip from the cup of tea he had made nearly fifteen minutes ago. They watched each other in matching silence for several moments, before Sherlock spoke; “Have you checked out yet?”

“No.”

“What are you waiting for?”

John shrugged. “You.”

“You didn’t need me in order to check out.” Sherlock was getting ready to suggest he gather his things up but a very brief analysis of the room proved that he had already done so.

“No, I suppose not.” John lifted up off the couch, draining the last of cooled tea from his cup and tossing it into the trashbin. “Guess I’ll do so now, though.” he walked over and bent down in front of Sherlock, picking up the cigarette bud. Sherlock watched him throw it away.

John slid his arms into the sleeves of his coat and then slung the duffel bag over his shoulder, walking past Sherlock to the door. He didn’t look back to see if the boy was following, because he didn’t really assume that he’d just hang back in the room. Sure enough, a dark-haired shadow sidled next to him, putting the collar of his coat up. John felt himself smirk a little bit.

“What?” Sherlock demanded, obviously catching the minute gesture.

“Nothing. I like your coat.”

Sherlock felt a bit exalted at the comment for some reason. No one had ever complimented his beloved Belstaff coat before and his brother had deemed it as _melodramatic_. The fact that John was inclined to it made him oddly glad.

“I like your muscles.” he murmured in return on impulse.

“Sorry?” John cocked his head, breathing a laugh.

“Nothing.” Sherlock answered firmly.

The older man had clearly heard though because he was struggling not to look amused and Sherlock was managing a perfectly vacant facade.

John approached the front desk and got in line behind a man on the latter end of middle age checking in. He noticed after a moment that Sherlock was eyeing the customer in front of them for longer than was polite. He gave Sherlock a curious look, flicking another glance at the silver-haired man at the counter, who was handing over cash for his room. There was nothing worthy of a second glance, and yet Sherlock was staring at the man’s turned back.

Sherlock then leaned in close to John, speaking low in his ear. “Do me a favour will you and play along.”

Before John could react to the words Sherlock pushed him roughly, loudly saying; “I’m sick of your excuses, John! Either you stop drinking or we’re over!”

The outburst immediately got the attention of everyone within hearing range, and John stared at Sherlock for half a second in shock before responding. “ _Drinking_? My drinking is hardly the problem in this relationship! You’re the one off prancing about with other guys all the time!”

“Oh, so I’m not allowed to have friends now!” Sherlock threw up his hands in disbelief.

“ _Friends_ \- yeah, that’s rich!” John took a step forward.

Sherlock quickly retreated, bumping into the silver-haired man at the counter, who turned to him and Sherlock stammered out an apology.

The elder gave him a small smile and nod, taking his key from the innkeeper. “Don’t worry about it, son.” he glanced at John, and then walked past them to the stair case.

John licked his lips, heart pumping a bit too fast and flicked his gaze to Sherlock’s.

“I’ll be outside.” the boy uttered, completely calm now, and stalked off out the door.

Right then. John stepped up to the counter.

 

After checking out and apologizing to the innkeeper about their little public domestic, he met Sherlock outside on the walk. They veered over towards Baker Street.

“Prancing?” Sherlock muttered.

“Yeah, well.” John shrugged.

A moment passed before they both started giggling like two kids who had just gotten away with stealing sweets.

“What was that about?” John asked once their laughter died down and they reach the door to the flat.

Sherlock held up a wallet.

“What- oh, don’t tell me you nicked his wallet? What the bloody hell for?”

“John, I believe that man is wanted for the murder that has been all over the news as of late.” Sherlock opened the door, John following closely behind.

“You think he’s a murderer so you stole his wallet?” John questioned flatly, as they took the stairs swiftly.

They reached the ajar door and Sherlock paused, turning to look at John. “Do you think I’m wrong?”

“I’m just trying to see your reasoning here.”

Sherlock proceeded into the flat, opening the wallet and thoroughly inspecting the contents. He ended up lining everything up on the floor and sitting down in front of the display - fingers steepled.

John had set his bag down and approached from behind, glancing over everything - multiple license, credit cards, receipts, wad of money, a photograph of a brunette, a pack of matches. John crouched down, glancing over the four different ID’s.

“Now what?” he looked over to Sherlock, who had closed his eyes at some point. “Sherlock?”

The boy’s eyes snapped, luminous and as blue as Neptune, and he leaned forward, picking up one of the ID cards. He held it up to the light, studying it fixedly and feeling the edges before declaring, “Fake.” and tossing it aside. He did this with another, with the same result. The third was the same verdict. He held the last, running his fingers over the corners and bending it while moving it slightly in the light. Letting his hand fall, he read the name; “Benjamin North,”

“That one real, then?” John inquired.

“It would appear so.” Sherlock was up, over to the desk where he opened a laptop and was typing a moment later.

John picked up the picture of the brunette woman. He flipped it over, seeing  _'86_ scrawled on the back in black ink. “Wife?”

Sherlock didn’t have to look to know what John was referring to. “Marie North. Missing since 1986.”

“Same date as the picture.”

“Yes, thank you for stating the obvious.” Sherlock was bent over the screen, typing and scrolling nonstop.

John sighed, letting the photograph fall back onto the floor. “Mind if I make tea?”

“It’s your kitchen as well now, John. Feel free to do as you please. Oh, but don’t touch any of my experiments.”

“What happens if I do?” John wondered, strolling over into the adjacent room. He glanced over the microscope and test tubes and-...was that _flesh_? Actual flesh? John leaned over the table, looking at the discolored object and decided yes it quite was.

“Sherlock, why is there a piece of flesh on the table?”

“Experiment. I said don’t touch it.”

“Don’t want to, trust me.” John turned away, going over to fill the kettle. There was something rattling around in it though, and he opened the lid, reaching in to grab the object. His hand came back with an eyeball and that was so not on. The eyeball went back into the kettle, the kettle went back onto the stove, and John washed his hands for a solid forty seconds.

“So would you like eyeball tea or should I venture to find a different kettle?” he inquired once finished scrubbing his palms, standing at the threshold of the kitchen.

“It’s not that bad, actually.” Sherlock replied, eyes on the computer screen.

“You might want to have mentioned these sort of things before tricking me into living with you.”

“I didn’t trick you.” “You didn’t mention the spare body parts lying around either.”

“I’m a scientist.”

“That’s brilliant and all, really, I’ve no doubt you’re exceptional but next time you’re looking for a flatmate, maybe just give a nod to the so called experiments part of the deal.”

Sherlock stilled, his chin tilting just a bit in John’s direction. “...Are you making the tea or not?”

“I’m not using that kettle.”

“Use the microwave. This isn’t hard.”

“Think I’m gonna go get settled, actually.” John grabbed his bag.

“Fine.” Sherlock turned back to the laptop and John let out a slow breath as he headed for the steps leading up to the second bedroom.

 

*~*~*~*~*~

 

There wasn’t much to do as far as getting ‘settled’ in his room, so he ended up spending a half hour staring out the window. Eventually though the sounds of music drifted upstairs and he turned his head toward the door, listening for a moment. It was the violin; Vivaldi. So Sherlock was a classical fan. Somehow it wasn’t surprising. John decided to try again at the tea attempt and trudged back down.

He was caught off guard though when he came into the living room and found Sherlock with a violin tucked under his chin. The doctor hadn’t assumed that the lovely rhythm had been conjured by Sherlock himself, and somehow he almost felt stupid for not knowing better because after seeing those pale fingers working the instrument and the way it rested next to his elegant neck, it all fit perfectly. The dark-haired boy glanced over at John from beneath his eyelashes, silently acknowledging his presence as he played. John felt a heady jolt of something akin to fondness and he sort of dazedly stood there watching until several minutes later Sherlock set down the violin.

“You didn’t mention that you played violin, either.” John uttered after a moment of recovery from the rather heavenly performance. So he was living with a Vivaldi reincarnation and a mad scientist interested in serial killers. He can handle that.

“Problem?” the violinist inquired, taking a seat in his chair.

“No, not at all. You’re fantastic.” John smiled softly.

Sherlock looked up at him in surprise. John thought maybe he might have noticed a bit of red tint to his cheeks. “Good. That’s...good.”

John’s smile lingered a bit longer.

“Think I’m gonna make that tea now. Would you like some?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The doctor ventured into the kitchen once again, avoiding the kettle and grabbing tea bags and mugs from the cupboards after figuring out where they were. He came back in a minute later after fixing two cuppas, and handed one to Sherlock before sitting down in the chair across from the one he was currently occupying.

“Figure anything out, then? About the guy?”

“He’s a lawyer from New York. He was on trial in New York during ‘87 after the disappearance of his wife, a neighbor said they saw him dragging a garbage bag to his car late at night on October 9th, four days before he went to police saying his wife was missing. The last she was seen by anyone other than her husband was October 8th. He said he last saw her October 10th. According to him she left the house after they had an argument and never returned. There was no incriminating evidence other than the neighbor’s testimony so he wasn’t convicted, of course. The body of a Hayley Moore was found in Leeds less than 48 hours ago. She had been bound in rope and found in a trash bag in a wooded area. In his wallet is a receipt from a hardware store dated three days ago. He purchased rope, plastic tarp, large trash bags, and latex gloves. I imagine you can come to the conclusion of what he did with them.”

John absorbed all that for a moment. “Right. So did you call the police?”

“He’s already been apprehended for questioning.”

John shook his head a bit in disbelief.

“What?” Sherlock demanded.

“You’re brilliant.” John shrugged.

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair, silent for several moments. “Would you like to go out to dinner tonight?”

“I imagine you don’t have anything edible here, do you?”

“Nope.”

“Dinner.” John affirmed.

Sherlock pretended that he wasn’t smiling the tiniest bit.


	4. Hot Crossed Veins

John's fingers curled around the Sig, the flat of his palm locking the loaded magazine in place. He doubted very much that he would have use of it while out to dinner with his nineteen year old flatmate, but he felt far more comfortable when his gun was on him, no matter the situation. He wasn't used to being unarmed, and it made him feel vulnerable. So he tucked the pistol into the back of his waistband, then tugged the end of his shirt down, and donned his jacket.

When he came down the steps and ventured into the living room Sherlock was at the kitchen table peering into a microscope lens. He had showered and changed into a nearly identical suit, save for the button down being black instead of white. The fully dark attire made his pallid coloring further prominent, and John thought further enticing. The doctor watched for a moment as the boy studied the slide, before those silver-green eyes glided up to his.

"I assume you're ready." Sherlock remarked, moving away from the table. He buttoned his blazer, long fingers grazing the expensive fabric in a smoothing motion. "I don't think you'll be needing that P226, but I can't make any promises, though. Suppose it's better to be safe than sorry, as they say."

John only felt a fleeting surprise. "Have you ever shot a gun before, Sherlock?"

The boy's gaze flickered down. "Yes."

"I bet you're a good shot."

Sherlock glanced back up to him. "I'm a decent shot, yes. Surely not as good as you are, though."

John felt an itch to smirk at his comment. "I'm more experienced."

The doctor watched as those sharp ivory cheekbones melted into a dusky blush. "Perhaps you could demonstrate to me your proficiency."

A keen of buzz of arousal burned through John's veins. He licked his lips, shifting somewhat. "I think dinner is in order first."

"I shall,  _wine and dine_ you, I believe is the term."

John laughed under his breath, trying not to grin too wide. "I don't believe I've ever been wined and dined before, so this should be interesting."

Sherlock grabbed his coat. Collar up. "Perhaps if I take the more dominant role you won't be inclined to view me as a _child_." he commented, arching an eyebrow at the doctor.

"You're still a teenager, it's hard not to feel a bit...eh, patrilineal."

Sherlock scoffed as they left the flat. "It's not as if you're old enough to be my father."

"No. No, thank god."

"Perhaps you find it attractive that I'm young." the boy suggested, swiftly taking the stairs with the elder not far behind.

"What, like a kink?"

"It's not unheard of."

"No, but..."

"Would you like it if I called you _daddy_?" Sherlock smirked, though John couldn't see.

John attempted to ignore that he had a slight reaction to the way the word rolled off Sherlock's tongue.  _Every_ word sounded good when he said it. "You're incorrigible. Now I feel like a creep, ta."

"Don't be dull, John." Sherlock intoned, leaving the door open as he exited the building.

"Try not to be."

 

Sherlock insisted on them going to a cozy Italian restaurant that he seemed to frequent, as he was personally recognized by the staff, including the owner, who came up to the table himself to greet Sherlock.

"So good to see you again," Angelo gave Sherlock's shoulder a squeeze and the boy returned with a close-lipped smile. "Anything you want on the menu, on the house, for you and your date."

John watched on with bemusement, as Angelo grinned wide at both of them.

"This man got me off a murder charge." Angelo commented, clapping Sherlock on the back.

"Can't say I'm surprised." John muttered, stifling a small smile.

"A few months ago at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder, I proved that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house breaking." Sherlock shrugged gracefully.

"He cleared my name." Angelo asserted.

"Mm," Sherlock tilted his head a bit. "-well, cleared it a bit."

"I would have gone to prison if not for you."

"You did go to prison." Sherlock uttered, fingers grasping the menu to scan the selections of wine.

"I'll get a candle for the table; it's more romantic." Angelo moved off, coming back a couple moments later with a red taper to place in the center of their table.

"Yeah, ta." John smiled at the kind man.

"John," Sherlock spoke without looking from the menu. "Do you prefer red or white wine?"

"Suppose I prefer red." John answered, finally going to flip through his own menu.

Sherlock turned his attention to Angelo, "We'll have a bottle of the Amarone."

"Of course," Angelo nodded. "I'll be right out with it."

The owner disappeared once again and Sherlock rested his fingers against his chin, watching John.

The doctor glanced up, meeting the gaze that was on him. "So, are you actually going to eat something?"

"Yes. The food here is quite good."

John licked his lips, flicking his eyes back to the meal choices. "What's your suggestion, then?"

Sherlock eyed him, and John had the feeling he was trying to estimate what John would like.

Angelo reappeared with the bottle of Amarone, pouring two glasses and setting them down. "What else can I get you?" he smiled.

Sherlock slid the menu out from John's grasp, folding it with his own and handing them back to Angelo. "I'll have the Penne Alla Vodka and John will have the Chicken Parmigiana."

A small smile played on John's lips as Sherlock gave their order and they were left alone as the meals were prepared.

"I had other choices in mind but that was what paired best with the wine." Sherlock stated, pale fingers wrapping around his wine glass with elegance.

"No, that was a fine choice." John's hand rested on his own glass, and he took a taste. "Quite fine." he appraised.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth lifted in a brief smile of satisfaction.

"You were serious about the wining and dining thing, huh?" the doctor mused.

"Did you think I was jesting?"

"No. I just- like I said, not used to it. Well, hell, I haven't gone out to dinner with anyone in years."

"Neither have I."

John pursed his lips. "Right. You don't date much."

"At all." the younger man corrected. "I told you that you were the first person I've taken an interest in."

"Okay, yeah...but I mean, you've never even gone on a date before?"

"Why would I if I had no inclination towards another person?" John looked at him for a moment before asking the question that popped into his mind. "Sherlock, have you even had your first kiss?"

"I believe you kissed me earlier."

"Wait, so that-  _I_ was your first kiss?"

"Problem?" Sherlock inquired, taking a drink of the burgundy liquid.

"No. No problem." John let out a slight breathless laugh, eyes darting out the window overlooking the busy nighttime streets.  _He_ had been Sherlock's first kiss. That was oddly thrilling in some flattering way. How the hell had he managed to capture the apparent very rare interest of this brilliant nineteen year old? It was beyond him.

Their meals came out promptly, and at John's insistence Sherlock told him of the crimes and cases he had divulged during his adolescence, including helping Mrs Hudson ensuring her husband's death. His interest in murders rivaled that of his experiments. John thoroughly enjoyed his food, and cleared his plate. Sherlock on the other hand didn't finish but half of his, and slid the rest over to John, stating that he was a very suitable garbage disposal. John snorted a laugh, and proceeded to consume the leftover pasta.

Sherlock had gotten through an entire glass of wine and a _half_ of his second, so therefore the lightweight was a bit buzzed on the sweet alcohol. His eyes shining, cheeks tainted with a light flush, lips wine stained and John thought positively lush looking. He felt a burning in his solar plexus just from taking in the sight of Sherlock across from him, attempting to get down his second serving of wine, and only becoming more divinely dazed. It was just enough to make him suitably blithe. He brightened to the idea of dessert when John suggested it and the doctor ordered a tiramisu (to share because he didn't think either of them couldn't finish a whole on their own at the moment) and coffees.

"I quite like this wine." Sherlock divulged, as they awaited their post meal sweets and caffeine. "Perhaps I should ask for a bottle to take home."

"It was very nice." John agreed. "And the high alcohol content is convenient for getting you smashed on only two glasses."

"I am not drunk, John." the boy dismissed.

"You're a lush." the older man smiled, amused and fond.

"I did mention that."

"It's cute." John amended, and he could have sworn the flush on Sherlock's cheeks darkened.

Angelo arrived with their order then, setting the plate of cake down with two forks, and their coffees.

"Thank you." John nodded.

"Just let me know if there's anything else you need, boys." he gave a wink and bowed back to the kitchen.

The candle had melted down to its last leg, dripping and flickering it's shadows across the table as they tucked into the tiramisu.

"John," Sherlock murmured, slowly pertaining a bite onto his fork of the moist cake. "Though this is my first date I'm sure in my conviction that this would by far surpass any other evenings had I embarked on them. In fact, this has been the most pleasant evening I've shared with another person."

The doctor licked his lips of cream, eyes flicking over Sherlock. "Really?"

"Did I appear to be joking?" the boy arched an eyebrow, mouth gliding over the fork to get the morsels left behind.

"No, just- no one has ever said something like that to me before. It's very...romantic, actually." he mused.

Sherlock leaned up to slice another mouthful from the cake. "I don't consider myself romantic."

"That was a bit romantic, though." John smiled.

The black-haired teenager settled back into his chair, seemingly done with dessert. John set about to finish off the last few bites as Sherlock sipped at his coffee. The doctor was mid-bite when he felt the edge of a foot skim his calf and almost bit his tongue when Sherlock rested his ankle on John's thigh. He swallowed his food carefully, setting down the fork to take a swig of coffee. Heat creeped up his neck. The insole of aforementioned foot brushed the zipper of John's jeans. He flicked his gaze to Sherlock, who merely gazed back without any telling expression.

"Perhaps we should continue this back at the flat." John proposed, willing himself to pretend that foot wasn't languorously rubbing between his legs with just a bit of pressure.

"That's a wise suggestion, doctor."

The caress under the table disappeared and Sherlock caught Angelo's attention. John rubbed the back of his neck, trying to calm himself. Moments later they were riding in the back of a cab, and John was attempting to keep his hands to himself. It was very,  _very_ difficult as Sherlock's creamy skin and wine reddened lips nearly begged to be touched. The drive was felt far longer than it was.

Sherlock paid the fare, and they found themselves inside climbing the stairs to the flat. Sherlock was divesting himself of his coat before they had fully entered the room, hanging it up. John shut the door behind him.

The younger man turned to face the doctor, and they held each other's gaze for several heart-pounding moments. John felt his pulse jump higher when the boy leaned into him, hesitating with their mouths centimeters apart before closing the distance in a soft kiss. John melted at the touch; the feel of those lips brushing against his own was maddening. Sherlock was clearly unsure of exactly the efforts he should be applying, and John found the obvious inexperience more than a bit arousing. John took the opportunity to give some lessons, his arm sliding around Sherlock's waist and pulling them even closer together. John trailed his tongue along the seam of Sherlock's lips, and the boy instinctively parted them for the doctor's access.

John sucked Sherlock's bottom lip, before delving into the warmth of his mouth. Sherlock's tongue tangled with John's, his fingers gripping the older man's jacket. John could taste the coffee and sugar on Sherlock's palette, with the edge of alcohol laced underneath. The boy was a quick leaner; and their mouths were melded with indulgence and eagerness. Eventually though John had to break apart before he ended up ravaging Sherlock against the door of the flat. Not that it seemed all that bad of an idea.

"Sherlock," he uttered, head swaying, lips tingling. "-bedroom."

The sea colored gaze of the younger processed him for a moment, as if he wasn't comprehending before his realization lit and he all but pulled John by the lapel of his jacket down the hall, and into his bedroom. John hadn't seen the bedroom of the young genius prior on his tour of the flat yesterday, the door had been shut and Sherlock made a vague acknowledgment of it being his living quarters. Now though, the doctor was hardly interested in the interior surrounding him, and far more immersed in the pale body rubbing against his as they stumbled over towards the bed with their lips intertwined again. Sherlock's lithe fingers were tugging the jacket from John's shoulders, casting it aside to the floor.

His arm snaked behind John's back, retrieving the handgun from its hiding place. "Don't think you'll be needing this, do you?" the younger man questioned, inspecting the firearm briefly.

"Not unless you're into that." John grinned.

Sherlock indulged in a small smirk, stepping over to set it down upon the stand beside the bed. "Maybe next time." his hands dropped down to the opening of his collar, fingers unfastening the buttons of his black shirt.

John took in a steadying breath as he watched that ivory skin be exposed little by little, feeling like a bundle of hot crossed veins and trembling anticipation. The blood in his body pooled southward, and he tugged his own shirt off as Sherlock shed his. Their bodies met again, bare shoulders and chests touching, hands exploring newly revealed flesh. John pushed the younger man onto the surface of the bed, hovering over him with elbows and knees supporting his weight. His lips meandered from Sherlock's zealous mouth, dipping down to taste that long expanse of pallid throat, fingers undoing the hook of the boy's trousers so he could slip his hand inside. Sherlock's next inhale was shaken and shallow as John stroked his erection through the fabric of his pants. The younger felt as if his body was burning up from the inside; there were electric pulses humming beneath his skin, leaving him breathless and aching for any amount more. John sucked at a patch of smooth skin at the hollow of Sherlock's throat, tongue melting into the heat and teeth skimming.

Sherlock's eyes fell closed at the shear onslaught of sensations buzzing through his entire being. His hands slid up the doctor's back, John's name falling of his lips in a heady sigh. His mind was unsure which feeling to analyze and store, which receptors to focus on through the Dopamine haze. He had to give up on the prospect of trying to think logically or clearly as the building pressure coiled in his gut grew to utterly distracting proportions, and he become dazedly aware that he wasn't going to last into any other activities if John didn't stop with that fantastic friction against his cock.

Sherlock opened his mouth, blinking past the absorbing feel of John's tongue melting against the pulse point of his throat, attempting to find words as his orgasm approached rapidly. It seemed the rising levels of endorphins flooding his veins messed with the functioning of his cerebral cortex because instead of informing John that he was going to come _now_ , he ended up nearly biting his tongue as his climax built to the brink and stammered some invocation in French along the lines of _"_ _oh mon dieu, se il vous plaît, oh dieu - John,"_ and dug his teeth into his bottom lip to shut himself up other than the helpless moan that escaped as the heavenly high of warmth and overwhelming reactions became him. God, it was as excellent as his drug-induced highs.

John waited until he was certain Sherlock was capable of speaking again, looking up at him with mirthful blue eyes. "Did you just speak French when you came?"

"I-I momentarily forgot English." the younger man answered, swallowing. He met John's gaze, breathing heavily still.

The man grinned at him. "God, you're adorable." he kissed Sherlock on his open mouth, one hand running through those ink-black curls and the other stroking his collarbone with a thumb.

"It is a bit disappointing I didn't make it even to the point of our entire clothing being divested." Sherlock uttered.

"There's plenty of time for that another day."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at this. "Another day? Why not _tonight_?"

"Sherlock, you came in less than sixty seconds from a handjob without actual skin on skin contact, imagine how long you'd last during anything else."

The young scientist thought through this for a moment. "I see your point. I hope I haven't dissatisfied you."

"Don't be an idiot." John murmured, kissing him quite thoroughly. Afterwards he rolled off Sherlock, lying back on his elbows alongside him. "Besides, you can always make it up to me." he remarked with a playful smirk.

The younger man's eyes took in the doctor's shirtless appearance. He smiled. "I would gladly oblige."

"Was hoping you'd say that." Sherlock leaned in to realign their mouths together, a hand running down the planes of John's stomach until he reached the waistband of jeans. He had them unfastened and his violinist fingers dipped inside grey pants and wrapped around John's cock in merely a couple fleeting seconds. John nipped at Sherlock's bottom lip, a low groan catching in his throat at the feel of those divine digits around him, stroking him to climax.

He pulled Sherlock closer, as much as physically possible, grabbing his arse. Their tongues joined, overzealous with hot-blooded want. When John came he swore he couldn't breathe for nearly five seconds and his entire mind was centered on the raven-haired man adjoining him, the smell of expensive cologne and tobacco riddling his memory and senses.

They laid in bed amidst post-orgasmic fog, nearly drifting off, Sherlock's long limbs tangled with John's before the doctor finally willed himself to get up and clean off, lest they both wake up with a resinous mess awaiting. Sherlock merely grumbled, sliding his trousers and pants off, then rolling over and stuffing his face in a pillow while tugging the sheet around him.

John stifled the oddly fond smile that threatened, and went to get flannels. Whilst doing so he also changed into a clean pair of pants after washing up and then entered the bedroom again to toss a flannel onto the bed beside Sherlock. In return the man heaved a sigh and grabbed the proffered cloth while John climbed back in beside him. A moment later Sherlock had intertwined their legs together, nuzzling his face into the crook of John's neck. This time John couldn't help the smile that came over him. He felt so utterly content. Just a day of knowing Sherlock and the doctor was already absolutely enthralled, without having the slightest intention to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so much fun to write. These two are brilliant together; the scenes practically write themselves. Cheers to everyone whose left kudos, subscribed, and commented!


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